


More of a March Than a Saunter or a Fall

by D20Owlbear, Takame



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 10 Times Crowley Existed in the World Not Covered By The Series, And Tramua, Aziraphale cameo, Babylon, But Crowley thinks about him, China, Crowley Whump, Crowley is Mistaken for a minor Goddess at Least Once, Crowley-centric, Demon's First Car, Desert of Time, Did you know you can find entire Queen Concert Setlists?, Epic of Gilgamesh - Freeform, Feelings Making Corporations Defective Since 4004 BCE (Good Omens), First Queen Concert, France - Freeform, Gen, Germany, God Ships It (Good Omens), Grains of Sand as a Metaphor, Honestly Aziraphale isn't in this much, Hurt Crowley, India, Pining, Plane of The Sands of Time, Pre-Fall, Rated T for Difficult Feelings, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), The Fall - Freeform, Too much research, Trying to Explain the Metaphor Too Much, We're World Travelers Now, Whump, pine scented throughout the whole thing, the timeline is fucked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 17:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22467310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Takame/pseuds/Takame
Summary: For every grain of the Sands of Time there is a story, a moment or an eternity contained within it. Immortality, functional or otherwise, is an interesting sort of thing - gaining weights filled with this sand and never shedding it to age properly. But what happens when it falls from one, especially amongst the Desert of Time with its rolling dunes? For each of the sands that fall, like grains in an hourglass, another story and moment passes. Crowley-centric look through time, told in snapshots of times not covered in the show and book.Sand whirled around three figures. Demon, Angel, and the Prince of Men. And suddenly it all fell away and they were back. In Tadfield, at the airbase, on a vast expanse of lifeless concrete that gave way to fire and brimstone as Satan clawed his way to the surface.And Adam, the Young one, knew exactly what to do.Crowley and Aziraphale believed in him so desperately that, even if Adam’s powers hadn’t been enough to shape this reality, he had the might of an agent of both Hell and Heaven at his fingertips.Art first chapter. Updated daily.
Comments: 59
Kudos: 85
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

> Beautiful and amazing artwork by [Takamei](https://takamei.tumblr.com/)! Please go visit her on Tumblr!


	2. Beginning

_Plink_.[1] A grain of sand falls from wind-burnished hands as the owner of it scrambles to stand and is subsumed by the rest of the desert seas of time. A dark-clad body rights itself even as it prepares for a fight, muscles straining against skin and flesh at the sheer effort run through it in order to achieve the impossible. 

Sand unseen in corporeal plane continues to fall, brushed off clothing in every haphazard movement filled with terror and determination in equal parts. 

_Snap. It echoes through the sky like a cathedral’s knell and clouds shake in their firmament._

Then, the desert sands are visible, only to three. One dark, one light, and one the spectrum of what exists between. Everything is still. Every moment here is still. Everything is timeless; out of time and in time all the same. 

* * *

[1] Surely this is the sound that a single fallen grain of sand makes, not the _shhh-shhh_ sound of hundreds or thousands as they shift and slide along each other as they’re blown across great deserts or the softer, grittier sound of it falling onto itself in the steady stream of an hourglass. 

* * *

#####  **The Beginning: Before the Fall ~ 4,000 ±7 Days/eternities AC [2]**

In the beginning, there was darkness and water, from which everything originated and all things were drawn. Then, SHE said “Let there be light” to the face of the void,[3] and there was light. Cosmos and universes were illumed with riotous colors and filled with heavenly lights, and it remained under the stillness of depths. Here were the first forms were made, in this womb of light and water. The first of them, who had seen the Morning Star in its blazing glory, received the name Lucifer, and after Lucifer came the others. Angels they were Made[4] to be and many in number until they grew to the size of a Host. 

Ringing out into the void came song, which resonates in the fabric of eternity even still. Then, SHE created the firmament, separating the waters and so the Host had a place to rest upon, which was called Heaven. The sounds of song grew louder as each praised and worshiped in the holy and the Heavens shook with their sonorous devotion. Then the waters gathered underneath the Heavens to form land and it was good. On this Day, for there had only been two of these eternities so far, seeds were sown of grasses and herbs and flowering fruit trees and among the most verdant of these were given place in the Garden, and GOD saw that it was good. 

* * *

[2] After Creation. There has not been a Christ yet and so nothing has been called BC. No one really thinks the whole BC thing will catch on though.

[3] It was blank, considering it was the void, of course, but if you were HER you could see the potential in it SHE saw, and it was Good and the face of the void is not to be frightened of, as it is nearly the same as an empty canvas. It might stare back into you as well though, and worry if you don’t take care of yourself.

[4] Angels, despite how they’re often depicted in modern art do not have belly buttons as they were Made rather than birthed.

* * *

Thereafter, effulgences were placed in the firmament a greater and a lesser to provide guidance and light to rule the day and the night and the stars were flung to the skies. Here, on the fourth Day, our story truly begins, with one creature of the many Hosts. 

This angel, who was a seraph and went among the Arch-angels, had been granted the name of Kokabiel and was given dominion over these stars and learned these constellations and Baraqiel was the angel who went alongside him to document the movements and knowledge of the Heavens. These two, through the eternity of the fourth Day, went among the void that is between stars and shaped them to reflect the pleasure of the LORD, and in this work they delighted. They went through the firmament of Heaven and lay their paints across the dark spaces, bringing forth light and colors as the LORD bade them to do, and SHE found that it was good.

As the fourth Day ended and the far star of Sol set in a fourth finality upon the Earth, Kokabiel and Baraqiel were called back to this life-hosting world. On the fifth Day they watched from above as the seas and skies were filled, and on the sixth Day the lands too were populated. This sixth Day was what they were returned to HER for, to watch and give homage for this last creation, Man. 

All of Heaven held their breath, not wishing for a single misplaced gust of air from them to cause any untold damage as they watched GOD form this first human. GOD spake unto them, “Let us make Man in our image, after our likeness,” and they waited further while SHE fashioned him from the muds and clays of the Earth SHE had wrought from the waters of the void. When this was done, they still held their breath, for SHE had not declared it Good and finished; and Man was not yet alive. But, on this the sixth Day, the sun had set and on the seventh Day the angelic Host was to rest and have respite from their purposes and given roles.

The Holy Host of the Firmaments of Heaven breathed again, though they did not need to. Kokabiel and Baraqiel turned to look upon each other and found themselves to look similar to Man and deemed it Good themselves. They wished to return to the stars and explore the celestial bodies further, but were tasked to remain. Kokabiel grew troubled as the seventh Day passed, as did they all; and in this seventh eternity, some angels gathered together and spake words in hidden whispers as they were kept from their sole purposes to observe this Day of rest.

As the sun set upon the Earth at the end of the seventh Day, there was another type of angel called the Fallen. They had been cast from Heaven; their forms twisted from the pure holiness into something resembling the least of the creatures of the lands and seas and skies. The attributes they shared being the worst of them, such as boils and pustulant scabs and scales.


	3. Fall

_ Plink. Plink _ . More sand fell unseen from hand and black blazer as it always does through the passage of time. It trailed where one walked and spent just as surely as minutes and hours, and just as things to be spent mattered more when one had less of it, timeless beings such as these cared not for the unburdening of a few moments. Sands that had been forgotten and relegated to lost and archived fell and shed from bodies as a snake shed old, ill-fitting skin in favor of something lighter and easier to move in.

#####  **Prehistory: The Fall ~ 4,000 -1 Day/eternity AC / BC**

The skies rumbled and were coated by painter’s brush suffused with red. Fire and blood as clouds charred into embers. The air was still and stale, coppery and constricting, the thickness of the screams pressed down into the souls of all who watched and fell and were pulled and pushed from the firmaments.

Kokabiel felt separate and distant, to HER, to them, to everything. His face was a perfect statue carved from marble and embers flew up as if in rebellion against the stifling atmosphere and settled in his hair. The black of it, dark as the void between the stars he had hung and cosmos he had painted, lit up a fiery red to match the sky behind him. He couldn’t feel this either, separate from even this celestial form that he was made up of, even as Baraquiel rushed to him and grasped at his hands.

“Thou art burning.”[5] The other star-painter said, his face pulled into perfect disharmony, agonized at knowing what was to come. He had been content to wait, for HER to send them out again, to never ask  _ why _ . So much like Kokabiel and all at once so unlike him.

“I am.” It was almost a question, if not for the firmness behind the fire-haired seraph’s eyes. Baraquiel wept, his own onyx eyes meeting the golden shine of Kokabiel’s, their hands twining as they had many times before. This would, perhaps, be the last of it. They did not know what was happening to the others, only that they were no longer celestial or truly ethereal[6]. They were twisting and burning and  _ falling _ . All for asking, for wondering. For  _ doubting. _

* * *

[5] There was a point that Kokabiel would have thought this funny, Baraqiel’s obvious observations, but for some reason, perhaps the tone of it, it was more sad than anything.

[6] Instead they simply fell (as it were) under the umbrella of  _ esoteric _ and, more specifically, occult.   


* * *

There was a great weeping and gnashing of teeth and the sounds bloodied the ears of all who heard. For it was wretched and shattered the souls of those who listened. The great red dragon, who was Satan, roared as he clashed with Michael; and the Heavenly Hosts, both those who burned and those who did not, roared and clashed with each other as well. All of this took place atop the firmament of Heaven. 

Brothers and sisters and siblings cried out in betrayal and wept just as Baraquiel did for Kokabiel, whose forehead held a burning brand like a crown, a golden-red circlet that marked him as Satan’s. He hadn’t meant it. Kokabiel hadn’t meant to ask or wonder, but he couldn’t help it. Lucifer, the Morning Star, the First of them All had said it would be alright. Had told the makers and creators and those who had been created by Her only to assist her in building up the lands and stars and waters She desired that it was only natural to ask such things, to make sure they understood what She asked of them. To affirm their places in Her plans, just as they ought to! 

Kokabiel had not known Lucifer told the warriors something else, those he had swayed to his side that had been created by Her to protect and guard—though against what Kokabiel hadn’t known that either. That Lucifer had told them they would finally see their purpose, they would finally fight and war with those who would otherwise oppose them. 

Kokabiel had not known the words he had taken to be Truth were nothing but twisted visions spoken deep into the heart of him. Even still, he would not have made a different choice, it was simply that the choice was easier with Lucifer’s words behind him. But were Lucifer’s plans for him so different than the Almighty’s? Had Lucifer ever wanted anything other than his blind obedience? Would he have told Kokabiel what he did if he had wanted anything else?

The heart inside Kokabiel clenched at the same time Baraqiel’s hands did, pulling him from his pained thoughts, Baraquiel’s grip tight and uncomfortable and raging against what felt like unfairness. A wetness fell from the corner of the light-haired angel’s eye and Kokabiel raised a numb hand to brush it away, though it had dried, crystalline and salt-crusted from the heat around them by the time his fingertips reached Baraqiel’s face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, his eyes turned from his most ardent friend to the Fallen and felt his feet start to sink through the clouds that had always felt firm beneath him before. Before all this, before the questions and the  _ why _ .

Even now, he couldn’t stop.  _ Why? Why would just asking questions be so bad? Why would it merit this? Did it?  _ Could _ it? To be damned by HER for only wanting to know? _ He would not bring anyone else down with him, never. This was his own rebellion[7], he’d never be so cruel to damn anyone else like this, and perhaps that made him too merciful for HER.

He pushed Baraqiel away, roughly enough that the weeping angel fell to his knees and stirred up enough of a current in the Space Between Them[8] the feathers, slowly charing to be black as Kokabiel’s hair used to be, fluttered as they fell from his wings. Two of his wings, the largest of the set of six, had nearly been reduced to ash at this point, little more than spidery down on the nonexistent wind and his feet sunk more with every moment. He stepped back, towards the edges of the firmament, towards those who were Falling and Fallen.

There wasn’t anything left to say. That wasn’t true. There were eons of things left to say, love to give, questions without answers, hurts to soothe over and eternities to bask in. But none of that could be done anymore, so it was easier to say there wasn’t anything left. Kokabiel continued to step back, slowly drowning in fire and cloud and ash in the star-hot stale air. Soon, he couldn’t see Baraqiel’s betrayed visage. 

It was a reprieve he did not deserve, Kokabiel thought, but one of the very few he had left. So he wrapped the relief in his heart and held onto it so fiercely it would burn itself into his soul the same way the red burnt itself into his hair and the ash burnt itself into the only two wings he had left of the six.[9] 

* * *

[7] It wasn’t really, his own rebellion that is. It was more of Lucifer’s rebellion and they all got a bit caught up in it, in the not knowing, and perhaps it was a rebellion that the not knowing turned into not trusting, but how could they? They’d never before been made to question their trust and is it not only natural that trust needs testing to be earned? It is unfortunate, that, it hadn’t been earned before in smaller ways before this disaster of a trust fall.

[8] The Space Between Them had never been so large and vast, not even when they’d been on opposite ends of the universe. If, before now, there had been any such thing as twin souls, it would have been Baraquiel and Kokabiel. But now such bonds burned and were rent in two as surely as their hearts were.

[9] Even to this day, angelic tears wrench his soul in a distinctly painful way. Reminded him of things half-forgotten and made him Uncomfortable, unbearably so. This did not make it easy to terrorize angels as he was supposed to do when he came across them on Earth later down the line, impossible really. Ignoring angelic distress, simply put, made him queasy.    


* * *

And so he sauntered, face as still and sharp and soundless as marble statue, carved from grief and rage and suffering as he mourned what he once had and what might befall him now until he could walk no further, until his sinking turned into something far less contained. His steps turned, he faltered, and in his panic he looked up and hoped to himself that none were watching his shame, even as he secretly hoped to see Baraqiel again one last time, and was unable to contain his screaming anguish any longer. A piercing cry rent itself from his lips and tore at his throat as the holiness and godliness wrought itself from inside his soul and very being, tore out the Purpose he’d so carefully been built to contain and work, replaced by the embers and fire in the air like a void sucked in any light it could find and pull to it, ever-hungry and never sated.

His veins burned and his wings burned and his tears burned as he clawed at the air desperately. There were sounds of screaming next to him, just above, Fallen only moments after him though Kokabiel couldn’t seem to make out who it was, his eyes starting to burn beyond his ability to bear. It sounded familiar, somehow,[10] though surely he’d never heard an angel scream before today, and it plucked at the strings of his heart and soul in ways that echoed through him and rebounded within the confines of his ethereal form and caused it to twist into corrupted, dark shapes even as he burned.

His name. What was his name? Golden eyes turned serpentine, constellations laid carefully across his shoulders and face and form turned dull as brown dirt from the brilliant silvers and golds they once were, and the burning was to be a constant companion and reminder.

His eyes opened, his chest heaved with breath he didn’t need, his heart beat to push fire through his body of pain, and a hand helped him up out of the burning blue pools of sulfur, pulled him as if he were nothing more than a minnow on a deep-sea line. He was set down, dropped, onto the ground out of the sulfurous pool and fell to his side, unable to support himself in this form so recently ripped free of Grace and Love and All-That-Is-Holy. He’d been pulled out of the pools sooner than others, the rest had clawed their way out, he noticed, and had adjusted to the pain before they reached land. He had not.

“Crawly.”  _ Oh, that must be it _ , he thought, his name[11]. It made sense since he couldn’t do anything more than lay here on his side, looking up from the dirt. He was greeted by he who was once the Morningstar, a smaller form beside them holding their arms in a way that the newly-named Crawly instinctively wanted to mimic to cradle the wings that weren’t there anymore and soothe phantom pains that would never be soothed. “This is Ba'al-Zebub, ze will bring you to our  _ new _ firmament, below.”

Crawly shivered, suddenly cold despite the Hellfire in his veins.

* * *

[10] He wouldn’t know it until much later, when he could think of the Fall without panicking so much he stopped thinking at all, but even if he’d never heard the scream before he’d always recognize the twin to his soul, his fellow star-gazer, who Fell because he could not fathom a life that could be Good without his other half. Baraquiel’s story, however, is another one entirely.

[11] It felt wrong and  _ squirmy _ even then, but he hadn’t had anything better available at that point now had he?


	4. Gilgamesh

_ Plink _ . Grains of sand fell, again, still. And still, again, memories fell with them, inexplicably attached and undeniably linked. Sand and time and memories and dust would never be able to be separated, there was no point to try. Instead, it is meant to be endured, just as Time is. Ever marching forward as any dutiful soldier and bringing more death than the soldier ever might.

#####  **Babylon: The Edge of Kur: 1,300 AC / 2,700 BC**

Babylon had been nice. Nearly a millennia had passed and the serpentine demon had settled alone near what would at one point be known as the Kur river, nearly a day’s travel from what would be called Kuh-e Dinar some time later. Crawly had grown her hair out and adopted the look suited to women of the time, a large and elaborately woven shawl draped around her and girdled at the waist. It was a boon on the cold nights, having been made of wool, and paired with a fire kept her warm. 

Naqsh-e Rostam was nearby too, and she had the last place of rest before it, so it became common for people to come to her and beg for respite from the travel. So, she adopted a name that seemed more Babylonian than Crawly, which was Siduri, and these travelers grew in number until she expanded her place of rest so that it might hold anyone who came to her for respite from the nights and days across the Zagros mountains. 

She had no need for sustenance [1] and would know the business-sense of the Latin empire in its prime but desired no coin or money. Instead, she would conjure wine and mead and other fermented drinks to be paired with goat’s cheese and milk - though there were no goats kept nearby - and honey and bread - though there were no bees to make it or wheat grown to mill. Though these things were near enough in plenty, Siduri neither kept nor cultivated any of it except for some small gardens of mustard and mallow flowers [2] and elderflower which did not but was made to thrive anyway. 

One such night, there were a few travelers downstairs, where she served food and drink and kept her own quarters, she happened to look outside the window and noticed a pale, haggard man who looked like he had traveled from much further away than over the mountains to this sea-shore. Thinking to herself,  _ This man looks like a murderer _ , and worrying for the lives in the tavern - though she herself would surely be fine enough - she bolted the doors and the garden gate outside anyways.

* * *

[1] Though would later on in Rome partake of it for the first time, with an angel by her side and oysters fresh in brine. She wouldn’t be so much of a fan of eating so much as she would be a fan of Aziraphale eating…

[2] Mustard greens and mallow flowers were for curing headaches and skin irritations respectively and elderflower were for curing colds which were common amongst visitors.   


* * *

This caused the man to pause and to yell out to her, “Tavern-keeper, maker of wine, why do you bolt your door; what did you see that made you bar your gate? I will break in your door and burst in your gate, for I am Gilgamesh who seized and killed the Bull of Heaven, I killed the watchman of the cedar forest, I overthrew Humbaba who lived in the forest, and I killed the lions in the passes of the mountain.” And Siduri frowned in response, looking over to the weary travelers behind her and steeled herself, waving at them to pick up their food and go to their rooms for the night, she would be alright.

She responded in the way of the people who passed through her tavern and inn, which she privately thought was poetic in its own way and gave her plenty of time to think on what she would say with the time it took for repetition. “If you are that Gilgamesh, who seized and killed the Bull of Heaven, who killed the watchman of the cedar forest, who overthrew Humbaba that lived in the forest, and who killed the lions in the passes of the mountain, why are your cheeks so starved and why is your face so drawn? 

“Why is despair in your heart and your face like the face of one who has made a long journey? Yes, why is your face burned from heat and cold, and why do you come here wandering over the pastures in search of the wind?”

Gilgamesh answered her still loud and thundering, though his words were drawn with his grief, “And why should not my cheeks be starved and my face drawn? Despair is in my heart and my face is the face of one who has made a long journey, it was burned with heat and with cold. 

“Why should I not wander over the pastures in search of the wind? My friend, he who hunted the wild ass of the wilderness and the panther of the plains, my friend, who seized and killed the Bull of Heaven and overthrew Humbaba in the cedar forest, my friend who was very dear to me and who endured dangers beside me, Enkidu, whom I loved, the end of mortality has overtaken him. 

“I wept for him seven days and nights till the worms feasted on him. Because of my dearest friend I am afraid of death, because of my dearest friend I stray through the wilderness and cannot rest. But now, young woman, maker of wine, since I have seen your face, do not let me see the face of death which I dread so much.” 

Siduri’s eyes hardened and glinted like her golden fermenting vats in the noon sun behind the tavern. As if looking upon her face would be a reason to save any from their ends, inevitable as it is for mortals. And she hardened her heart as well to his pleas, though she felt it tug at her soul, a distant thing reminding her of her own absent best friend, [3] “Gilgamesh, where are you hurrying to? You will never find that life for which you are looking.” And didn’t that hurt to say? Didn’t it rankle to feel the Truth in it?

“When the gods created man they allotted to him death, but life they retained in their own keeping. As for you, Gilgamesh, fill your belly with good things; day and night, night and day, dance and be merry, feast and rejoice.” Her voice turned something edging on desperate, suddenly filled with an urgent need for him to believe her, to turn from the fruitless search that turned him haggard and bereft, reaching for unattainable stars. “Let your clothes be fresh, bathe yourself in water, cherish the little child that holds your hand, and make your spouse happy in your embrace; for  _ this too _ is the lot of Man."

But Gilgamesh did not approve of her advice, no matter how she might have pleaded, “How can I be silent, how can I rest, when Enkidu whom I love is dust, and I too shall die and be laid in the earth. You live by the sea-shore and look into the heart of it; young woman, tell me now, which is the way to Utnapishtim, the son of Ubara-Tutu?” Siduri faltered at the name, the breath she didn’t need catching in her lungs and her eyes widening as she raced to unlock the door to stop his questions. The kind that made even kings fall to their despair. [4]

* * *

[3] Adversary, whatever.

[5] Questions, she’d found, were volatile things. Every question possessed a power that did not lie in the answer, but in the need to ask it. And that power could guide men and angels into their ruin just as assuredly as it could raise them up. Well, not angels, questions could never raise an angel, only damn them.   


* * *

Gilgamesh paused briefly, but continued nonetheless, even in the face of her obvious distress, “What directions are there for the passage; give me, oh, give me directions. I will cross the Ocean if it is possible; if it is not I will wander still farther into the wilderness.' Siduri unbolted the door and stepped out underneath the light of the moon and, for a moment, Gilgamesh knew her for the goddess he heard tale of. 

“Gilgamesh,” She started, slow and mournful as a dirge, “there is no crossing the Ocean; whoever has come, since the days of old, has not been able to pass that sea. The Sun in his glory crosses the Ocean, but who beside Shamash, which is the name of the Sun, has ever crossed it? The place and the passage are difficult, and the waters of death are deep which flow between. Gilgamesh, how will you cross the Ocean? When you come to the waters of death what will you do?”

She choked here, but continued, mournful eyes assessing the man in front of her, who she knew she was sending to his death. And, perhaps worse, to his failure. “But Gilgamesh, down in the woods you will find Urshanabi, the ferryman of Utnapishtim; with him are the holy things and the things of stone. He is fashioning the serpent prow of the boat. Look at him well, and if it is possible, perhaps you will cross the waters with him; but if it is not possible, then you must go back.” Aziraphale would take care of him. [6] Hopefully. That’s all she seemed to have left these days, hope-against-hope.

And then, the haggard, starved man left her tavern-at-the-sea to continue on to the forest to meet Urshanabi with nary a word more. And she was left feeling bereft, the man who - despite his appearance - had a strong presence that seemed to fill the empty spaces she tried so hard not to pay attention to when he spoke with her. And now that he was gone, she felt them all over again, like ice that had hardened across cracks and then melted into glacial runoff leaving the mountains craggy and sharp again, empty breaths jagged against her own edges.

Crawly-known-as-Siduri sighed heavily and ran her hands over her face, eyes dry as a snake's and poorer for it with all these emotions pent up inside her. [7] Hell, she'd like to feel like she knew what all this was about at all, really. But she didn't, and that was the rub, wasn't it? That this was all so, so  _ ineffable.  _ Stupid fucking Plan! 

* * *

[6] At the moment Aziraphale was going by Urshanabi, said it was a  _ fashionable _ name. But he was building boats, carving the bows to look like serpents, said  _ that _ was fashionable too, and his new livelihood by the sea kept her here, the last tavern and rest before it. He hadn’t come by, but she had wine and honey and food, so she hoped it was reasonable for her to think he might. Perhaps. They were still enemies, of course...

[7] She'd give quite a lot to be able to cry like humans did, they always seemed to feel better, more clear-headed, after a good cry.   


* * *

And suddenly, she was angry. Angry at Men who couldn't just let things lie, that had to ask so many questions, kept searching for some unknowable truth and couldn't just  _ bloody _ be happy with what they had! She stormed out onto the hillocks surrounding her tavern, her inn, her  _ home _ until she couldn't keep her footing in the loose grasses and fell to her knees, screaming her rage and hurt with wide, devilish eyes glowing like molten, churning gold in a crucible. The irony and hypocrisy wasn't lost on her, of her thoughts of Gilgamesh and his love for Enkidu, of her thoughts on how he should be happy anyway even as she sorely misses, even now like an empty space in her chest, an angel that was kind to her a handful of times instead of a wrathful and holy justicar hounding her steps - she just didn't want to think on it. So she didn't. 

Instead, she felt. She threw sand she ripped up from beneath grassy roots towards the stars and cursed at everything she could think of, except for the LORD, and cried with everything she had, except for tears, even as she wilted like a flower in the desert heat when the sun broke across the horizon and painted the soft hills with rosy pinks and welcoming yellows gearing up to grow strong enough to paint the sky its beautiful, Angel-eye blue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue between Siduri and Gilgamesh took (and adjusted as needed) from [here](https://archive.org/stream/TheEpicofGilgamesh_201606/eog_djvu.txt)


	5. Flood

_Plink_. Another granule of sand, another story, another moment forever immortalized in the fleeting transience of falling. And what a Fall this one was, defying HER will. What a Fall it could be, was there any further than Hell? Would one Fall again if they defied Satan and HER alike?

**Mesopotamia: The Flood ~ 2,000 AC / BC**

_Not the kids? You can’t kill kids!_ The words rang through his head like a death knell as he raced against impossible odds, and even knowing he would be too late he couldn’t quench the raging fire burning him up inside his chest. It hit too close to home; felt too much like they were all being cast out again, too much like being judged for the sins of others, for sins they’d never committed or known anything about. 

_Sospitator_ , he thought desperately to himself, or perhaps he screamed it against the storms and winds that made rain fall nearly sideways in ways he never thought could happen at all. But it could, it could, oh GOD it could. And for that, he would always resent HER, and if SHE took offense to that well then SHE could sod off! He was already Fallen, there wasn’t much worse than that now was there…

_Sospitator,_ he prayed anyway, angrily and fuelling his flight through ice-cold rain that soaked his body through to the bones and made his blood sluggish, Y _ou’re supposed to be a preserver, a savior. You are supposed to be kind! And merciful! Was all of that just lies? Why would you allow this?! Not only allow it, GOD, but you bloody well made it happen!_

He prayed for hours, scouring the swiftly flooding valleys for children and a few of the younger parents. Most of them he could sense the cruelty in, the only good part of being a demon is knowing _exactly_ what sorts of vices people held in their hearts, and so he went as an Angel of Judgement (even if he was Fallen, and even if he had never been involved with Justice or Judgement or even Retribution) and passed his seal of approval over the children and young women and men who were innocent - as much as they could be.

A quick miracle, fuelled by Hell itself and the righteous, broken, and bitter fury in him, he turned them each into feathers and nestled them within his wings[1], on the underneath so they might be protected from the GOD-sent rain by his GOD-made feathers, and in his acrimonious, single-minded flight back to the ark he failed to realize that where he went the rain faltered nor did he notice that the lightning did not strike nor that the single warm thermal current left in the world followed him and pressed up underneath his wings to support his flight. [2] 

* * *

[1] This should be impossible, since the forms of celestial bodies, ethereal and occult alike, shouldn’t be able to be affected by celestial magics. It’s why holy (or unholy) wounds couldn’t be healed with magic and had to mend in a way quite similar to humans. But then again, since when has imagination and desperation stopped at something so simple as impossible?

[2] At his drunkest, and nothing he’d say aloud or even think near company, he’d remember it feeling like a vaguely approving, maternal embrace. That is, of course, if he’d ever had a mother he’d been birthed or raised by. Angels had a rather peculiar experience with all that.

* * *

Upon reaching the ark, which had already moved somewhat with how quickly the land was flooding, though not quite fully underway, Crawly hovered in the air and re-counted the artificial feathers he’d stuck in his wings with his magic. It would take a few more days of this rain, or for the rain to intensify drastically, for the boat to lift up off the ground entirely. But that wasn’t something that bothered him either way (well, it did, but there wasn’t anything he could do about the actual, bloody Flood, so) but he noticed one of the feathers was missing.

In a panic, he clicked his fingers and merged the newest feathers into his wings so no more would come loose and swooped through the air desperately searching for a lone black feather in the dark sky and hoping against hope, hoping against GOD that he’d find it before it was destroyed by the icy rain. He sped through the falling water like an albatross, or perhaps a black swift through a waterfall, and stretched his senses for anything that resembled him or his feathers. 

There was a bright, unignorable _light_ through the darkness. Crawly nursed the hope-embers in his chest and urged his wings even faster, unintentionally changing their shape [3] to something even more suited towards strong, powerful strokes to bring him quickly to speed and even quicker to wherever that feather might have fallen from him. He hoped it was the light he could see, prayed in the same way he raged before, desperately and with every fiber of his being. And just as before, the updraft lifted him and the rain lightened above his head in silent sanction.

* * *

[3] To this day Crowley doesn’t know he did it, just that he’s not quite as good at long distances or gliding on updrafts as he used to be, but he could certainly get places fast if he needed to.

* * *

He nearly flew past the light entirely, his momentum working against him at first, but he managed to loop back just as quickly as he’d flown by, serpentine eyes unseeing through the haze of rain and panic. Though it was quickly obvious this wasn’t just a feather, it was an angel, Unfallen. Aziraphale, from before, he was still here. Panic gripped at his corporation’s heart and caused it to stop beating for a few full seconds, felt like another eternity, and he unknowingly gripped at his chest with clawed fingers hard enough to bleed, though the dark fabric and falling water hid it well.

“Ang- Aziraphale?” He stuttered, voice shaking as the two of them hovered in the air, bolstered by the updraft. The angel in question looked up towards the sky, feather black as soot in his hand, precariously pinched between two fingers and nearly cradled against his chest, a juxtaposition of opposites that left Crawly poleaxed and entirely unsure what to make of it.

“Yes?” Aziraphale murmured, voice low and slow and resounding with something like reverence, his eyes never moving from the sky, as if he might be able to see HER face if only he looked hard enough. But he didn’t, no one has seen HER face in some time. Not since SHE had spoken to him at the gates of Eden and he’d _lied_ to HER.[4]

* * *

[4] Not that he would ever admit that particular bit of the tale to anyone.

* * *

“What are you-” Crawly cut himself off with a hard shake of his head, “The feather, give it back!” His voice trembled as lighting struck the water near them, flinching away from the sudden light that felt so much like holy fire, though the angel was far too distracted to notice, though his eyes returned from on high and he met Crawly’s eyes without flinching as so many Humans might have. 

In that moment, the dazed look in the angel’s eyes incited a panic unlike any other in Crawly, the glazed eyes pulling him back hundreds, thousands, of years to the dogged defenders of Heaven and their sweeping, fiery swords and dark gazes as they looked upon the Fallen and deemed them _lesser_. His hands shook and his voice shook and he nearly lost whatever air he’d caught with his wings and plummeted, _again_ the desperate, delirious thought shot through his head like the lightning nearby, but was bolstered by warm air that suddenly felt hot even in the icy rain.

“Give- give it back.” Crawly nearly wept in his pleading. Aziraphale blinked at the demon before him and nodded, saying nothing else before stretching out his hand, offering the feather over, back to its original owner. Or, the one who looked like he’d owned it at least.

Crawly snatched the feather, with hands as fast as the strike of a snake, and held it to his chest as he forced his heart to calm and his hands to stop shaking. There was a roof over there, still out of the floodwater, enough to alight upon and return the feather to his wings. 

Aziraphale hovered still, bright eyes the color of the sky-that-wasn’t focused impossibly sharp on Crawly. He shouldn’t have cared so much, about something like a lost feather that so obviously didn’t impede his flight. Molting happened, or the angel presumed it happened to demons just as it did to angels, nothing to be worried about. But here he was, worried, and that in turn worried Aziraphale. He knew he _shouldn’t_ be, but what if Crawly somehow hadn’t known? He was a snake, wasn’t he? Aziraphale knew plenty of demons lost their memories of before, of Heaven, from the hearsay of angels at least. 

“Crawly…” The angel touched down delicately next to the demon, hand held out to stop the demon from trying to adjust his wings, they didn’t work like that. He snatched his hand back with a gasp when the feather looked to take root where Crawly had placed it and his eyes grew wide in something in between awe and horror when the feather reattached to Crawly’s wing.

“Oh my.” He breathed, face falling at the stony look in the demon’s eyes and he reached out again, only to stop when Crawly flinched. “I’m sorry,” the angel said, though he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, other than something had caused the other to balk at the possibility of touch.

Without another word, Crawly flexed his wings and pushed off from the rooftop and flung himself into the sky, lit up in the darkening storm by lighting in the near distance. The rain seemed to pour heavily in his absence and the wind felt colder. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was in truth or if his corporeal senses were playing tricks on him. And if they weren’t, just what did it mean that the demon was buffeted less by the Godsent storm than an angel? He struggled to take off from the roof, vaguely envious of Crawly’s powerful wings for a split second before discarding the emotion as useless, and climbed up above the clouds until he broke free of the storm to fly above them and shaking off the rainwater.

A thought niggled at the back of his head though and it caused him to descend into the darkness once more. He was searching for something, didn’t know what it was, not until he caught sight of someone crying on the top of a roof, an older child who looked bedraggled and uncared for, likely one without a home, one who hadn’t been herded away by parents or guardians when the flooding started in earnest. Something in his chest broke and wept great tears, spilling in him like the floodwater spilled over the ends of the earth and he swooped down to offer some comfort at the last of it. It was the least he could do, the only thing he could do. 

But just before he made it there, some hundred meters away, the demon appeared, alighting gently on the rooftop and coaxing the boy closer. The insides of Aziraphale’s chest twisted and felt like it was ready to crack more, he made a note to ask Head Office about getting the corporation tuned up but disregarded the thought as soon as it passed through his head, the moment the demon got his hands on the boy. A few heartbeats of time passed, eternities within eternities and still not enough time to understand the shock of the child turned into a feather, perfectly pitch black and matching the very one Aziraphale had held in his hands before.

_Oh. Oh Crawly. What have you done?_ He thought to himself, chest clenching painfully, twisting beneath mortal ribcage in worry and wonder.


	6. Naga

_ Plink _ . Still more sand falls, gaining traction and momentum, speeding up as more happens as more of the world is formed and cultivated and settled. These celestial creatures who build up their stores of sand and build their houses upon it, hoarding each moment in time never to return it properly to its place except by forgetting it. 

#####  **India: The Home of the Naga ~ 52 AD**

Crowley was tired of the cold and wet, ever since the Flood, she couldn’t seem to stand it. So she went south, just like the birds did for the winter, they had the right of it. Seems like they couldn’t stand it much after the Flood either. She’d changed her name, Crawly seemed a bit too ‘slithering in the dirt at your feet’ and Crowley was a bit more difficult to say, had to stretch your mouth out around the ‘o’ and bring your lips up into a mimicry of a smile at the end, much easier to drawl, lilting off her tongue and fallen like honey from her lips, and pretend the name no longer bothered her.

But for now she didn’t have to go by any of it. She’d settled into an area not too far from what would be called Darjeeling in India, not far from where the Teesta River was joined by its tributary Rangeet, and carved herself out some space in the subtropical forests. She brought up gorara stones and polished them so she might bask atop them in the sun as a snake. The red and black of her scales shone in the glistening gilt rays of sunlight filtering through the treetops, casting what might be called a heavenly glow of green and gold amidst the humid heat and the crooning calls of creatures who were more than happy to let the gargantuan snake sleep unharassed.

It was like this that Crowley found herself stuck for some time, she had forgotten how to turn back into something human-like. The curse GOD had laid at her feet, before she’d had them in the Garden. She shivered despite the heat in some juxtaposition between rage and sorrow and human and snake and demon, cursed by what had been meant to be a Good GOD, a Loving GOD, a GOD who Loved  _ all _ HER creations, including her. She shivered, though a snake should not be able to, but she had always been capable of things she was not supposed to be able to. She had always been able to create and question.

_ The LORD hath said unto the serpent,  _ the words rang in her head, mocking and cruel, as if SHE had come down off HER throne up on high to whisper them insidiously into her ears, just as she had done to Eve,  _ because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field.  _

The Garden appeared around her, overlaying the beauty of the lush forest around her and smothered the rushing of water from the river across great hills. Crowley flattened herself upon the heated rock and felt the burning of the desert dust overcome her and she cried great tears from serpentine eyes.  _ Upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life. And I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel. _ [1] And by HER words, Crowley was cursed even above any other demon, which she reported with a pretense of pride upon entering Hell once more. She, who was cursed after being cast out, and had Fallen even further from GOD’s grace, and who had gathered HER ire above all. 

* * *

[1] Genesis 3:14-15   


* * *

She, who had been cursed for the trouble she had wrought, who by the mandate of GOD would be the bane of humans, and all the children of humans, and would bruise their heels and gnaw at their souls evermore. And from this she fled, terrified of herself, to the Eastern Gate. Only to find an angel who hadn’t made it seem so bad at the time. Who eased the aching in joints that hadn’t hurt before she had been Commanded to crawl on her belly at the feet of others, who looked at her and seen, perhaps, some mirage of Goodness. 

Desperate to pull herself up off the ground past what she could do as a serpent but with a muddied mind, unable to see through the past, she wasn’t able to remember herself and her shapeshifting abilities. In vain attempts at pulling herself together into something  _ else _ , something that wouldn’t slither and wouldn’t keep her at the heels of the children of Eve, she Pulled and reshaped herself and  _ blinked _ . 

Crowley lay on the stone, warm from the dying sun and quickly the light faded from the sky. When did it get that late? Night insects came to life and Crowley spread out her arms, and sighed in relief as she fell asleep - weary to her bones. Tomorrow, she’d deal with it tomorrow, she thought as she curled up on the still-warm stone, wishing there were pure white wings to stumble underneath this time too, the only good thing to come out of the whole Garden debacle in her opinion.

When the sun rose the next morning and the last vestiges of warmth were slowly sucked out of the thick stone she kept as her bed, Crowley groggily woke and pushed herself up with her human-shaped arms, sighing. Good, she hadn’t forgotten. And she pressed down all those little voices in the back of her head clamoring about how she’d certainly forget if she became a serpent again, and how this must be what SHE meant about being forced to slither on her belly for all her days, unable to shift her form into anything else. What if she got stuck? No, it would be fine, she promised herself, it would be fine. She just… wouldn’t turn into a serpent anymore. She could keep the tongue and maybe some of the scales, but she wouldn’t turn into her serpent form any longer, it was… too painful. More than the rest of her was painful when she wasn’t a serpent, when she rose above the station of her curse, grew legs and limbs and ate things free of dirt. It didn't change much, her hips and legs and shoulders always hurt when she did anything other than lay on her belly and everything she ate tasted like dirt, though drink hadn't been cursed… 

Speaking of drinks, Madya was starting to become popular as an anesthetic, among other things, here, surely someone would have some to share if she trekked into the village down the river. Slipping off the stone bed she stood. 

Oh, but no, she didn’t. 

Something didn’t feel right, a sinking cold feeling shot down her spine and continued on longer than it should have. Her skin pebbled with bumps and the hair on the nape of her neck stood on end. She felt, suddenly, like the world had closed in around her, her vision tunneled and pinpricks of light are all that she could see. Looking down, Crowley saw her human arms and human torso filled out in human ways but beneath her tunic there were no legs in sight. Horror mounted in her and quickly whipped up into a whirlpool of panic, her gut churned and her body trembled and if she had anything nearing a gag reflex she would have puked whatever might have been in her belly. 

Out from her tunic coiled long muscles coated in smooth black scales with coal-red underbelly. 

She screamed and pushed herself away, as if her legs might rip from the snakeskin, as if she might watch it shed off. But her body and tail remained attached, and she remained a monster. Her eyes had never been human, so no matter how she wailed and screamed, she no longer produced any tears despite having more human eyes, and no matter how she scratched at where her hips ought to be and drew blood with sharp nails and ripped off scales as if they were hiding human flesh beneath it, her nightmare wouldn’t end.

Night fell, and she was still a monster. 

That fact wouldn’t change for some time. Eventually, the local humans found her and cheered her up somewhat, and eventually, generations died as the years passed, and eventually, she returned to a more human state. Year by year, plucked scale by plucked scale.

She never was able to get rid of the ones on the soles of her feet.


	7. Typeset

_ Plink _ . Time moves ever onward, even here, even in the stillness of this desert. The sands shift on the windless breeze and evermore the grains fall,  _ plink, plink, plinking  _ from those carrying the weight of it. 

#####  **China: Moveable Type, 1040 AD**

Crowley’s tongue stuck out as he focused on the little block of soft clay held between dexterous fingers. He faced away from the fire with smoky quartz glasses covering his eyes, not wanting the people around him to see the split in his tongue that would mark him as something  _ other _ . He was working on his signature, it was difficult work, trying to fit the full character onto the small block while trying not to squish it but at the same time mark it deeply and clearly with the stylus. 

He was giddy with anticipation, despite the hardship of reading and writing for him [1] he was helping create the first movable type. Things didn’t have to be handwritten! Brilliant! Humans were ingenious and creative beyond what he could have ever imagined. Aziraphale was going to be so jealous, and Crowley couldn't wait to finish this  _ blessed _ block and gloat to his angel about it. Of course, that's why he was here in the first place, Hell hadn't offered him a job recently so when he heard whisper of more efficient writing off he went. Funny that, he would have bet the angel would beat him here but he hasn't shown up at all. 

Crowley ignored the clench of his heart in his chest. Hell always gave out defective corporations. 

Bi Sheng, here in Yingshan County, Hubei was about a fortnight of travel away from Shēn [2] where Crowley had initially been wandering and wondering if he should try heading across the sea to Nihon or if he should double back and try a place he wouldn’t have to learn a new language again, Hanyu had already been plenty difficult to learn and the writing had been even more so. 

He still couldn’t tell if it was his luck or his detriment that he looked so foreign, it gave him leeway to learn the language [3] without as much reprimand for not knowing it but also made it rather hard to blend in. His hair, especially paired with dark clothing and dark eye-shade, either caused alarm or intense fascination. Either way, slinking around in the shadows and subtly pressing people to do one thing or another with a Temptation was rather difficult in places he truly stood out and was remembered easily. 

* * *

[1] Crowley had, what he later learned to be, Meares-Irlen Syndrome in humans; which made lines on pages wriggle and move so they were hard to read. Secretly he thought it was just a product of being a snake in nature. Though he could often trick his eyes into catching the words like the movement of prey by the flicker of firelight or candles since they were far more snake than human in origin.

[2] Modern-day Shanghai. 

[3] He’d have had much less of a hand in the Tower of Babel if he knew encouraging people to ask GOD their questions directly was going to be such a problem. Tetchy indeed!   


* * *

He shook his head and got back to the task at hand, carving the excess of the soft clay to form negatives of the character. Not only did it have to be carved out into the negative, it also had to be carved in reverse! He’d have been done with this ages ago if he hadn’t messed up his first two tries and been forced to start over. Bi Sheng and his other apprentice[4] laughed good-naturedly and attempted to get him to work on something else, sensing his frustration with the difficult character, but he didn’t want them seeing it until after he was gone. Didn’t want them to run him off, to be honest. They were good people and he liked them, it really would be a shame when he left. He would leave, eventually, just like the humans would die, eventually. It was much easier, he learned, to leave before they did, so he didn’t have to watch them age too far, didn’t have to remember them other than how he met them, and didn’t have to come up with too many excuses for why he remained in stasis as he did. 

“Changpu,” Sheng called out from near the fire jovially, “Have you finished yet?”

“Not yet, honored elder.” Crowley looked over his shoulder with a rude, cheeky grin and tongue hidden once more, “Though I’m sure if you were patient I’d be done much sooner.” It was a lie, of course, Sheng had been plenty patient with him and even helped him learn to write better than before, though he wouldn’t be Crowley if he didn’t poke fun at the people he liked more often than not. Sheng only laughed, consistently an affable man with lighthearted humor. It was exactly why he liked him. That and the way he made things and shaped them from clay felt familiar somehow, and he had to repress the urge to throw whatever finished pots or painted and glazed porcelain into the sky and watch it fit into its place when he felt he was done with it. [5]

The other apprentice, Jinhai looked as appalled as he usually did whenever Crowley mouthed off at Sheng, or talked to him too familiarly. But this, he supposed, was one of the lucky things about being obviously foreign, the leeway with the language tended to extend to leeway with how politely he was expected to speak. And, to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure Sheng didn’t already suspect some oddness from him. Crowley thought he might have noticed how little he ate in general, had no need for it, and had little need for sleep even if he enjoyed it. [6] 

* * *

[4] That isn’t to say, of course, that Crowley was an apprentice, just an extra hand about, really. Even if he broke bread, more or less, at the same table and drank the same wine and was taught by the same teacher in his trade, it was different. Of course. Crowley was a demon, and demons didn’t become apprentices, and certainly not to artisans! 

[5] It felt like making stars, mixing them together and painting them and every time he looked at a dish and had to catch it as it fell from the sky because he’d been too jubilant in his creation, too caught up in his brushes and colors, and too stupid and slow to remember not to paint them like the heavens, his heart fell and clenched in his chest just a little tighter and a little colder to match the spaces within him void of stars. Damn defective corporations. 

[6] Crowley was right, Sheng did notice, but figured if he wasn’t causing trouble then it couldn’t be a malicious spirit of any sort, so he would let him be. Certainly having an apprentice who was willing to learn from him and also would occasionally work through the night without realizing was a blessing of a kind.    


* * *

After the two had left the workshop and gone to bed, Crowley still labored on the clay block until the fire banked itself into embers and he hadn’t enough light to see the finicky details by. Snapping absentmindedly he stoked the fire up once more, logs appearing on it perfectly spaced to catch and burn for a good, long time, and only turned from his work at the sound of a soft gasp. 

Sheng’s wife was holding a blanket in her arms, one of her hands brought up to muffle her sound of surprise, and her entire form trembled. She had seen his snap and the logs appear. Crowley sighed, a deep, aching thing that felt like the four winds leaving his body all at once. He stood in a swift, fluid movement that certainly looked more snake than human. 

“Bi-tàitai,” Crowley began, hands up and clay block was forgotten on the table next to his darkened glasses. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave.” He waited motionless, not even his chest moving to breathe, not wanting to startle her further or cause a ruckus, not when she’d been kind enough to this unworthy wretch of a demon who had taken plenty of advantage of their kind and pleasant natures.

She fled, blanket fluttering to the ground and muffled sob. Crowley shuddered in repressed feelings, the sorts and kinds demons didn’t have, of course, and bend down to take the blanket. It smelled like lye and clean dirt and witch hazel, the kind native here with golden frond-like petals and black oval seed pods. He folded it absent-mindedly and pressed it under his arm and reached to push his glasses back into place, only to narrow his eyes in scorn as he realized he hadn’t been wearing them at all, feeling safe enough to go without them in the middle of the night, far out from the Bi family home. How stupid.

He angrily plucked them from the table he’d been working and left in the dark of the night. He turned back West and thought it might be best to put this all behind him, he’d had enough of a vacation here, doing the simple things he’d enjoyed rather than the things he’d been employed to do. It was time to go back to work, there was, after all, no rest for the wicked and Crowley was amongst the wickedest. 

* * *

Hundreds of years later, nearly a thousand to be exact, Crowley visited his old apprenticeship and went to pay respects where he could to Bi Sheng and his family and even Jinhai too, and found a scroll waiting for him. He didn’t know how and didn’t know why, not really. It smelled of age-old angel-magic and scent-tasted faintly of Aziraphale, but as far as he knew Aziraphale had never come to China, not when this scroll should have been new. He found it in a tree, next to the workshop he’d carved his apprenticeship into clay blocks, or it would have been if the workshop hadn’t been long gone by now.

But the scroll was tied up in red cloth, painted with black and speckled with colors, which had hardened and cracked and yellowed over the years, nestled in the crook of an old tree, miraculously exactly at Crowley’s eye-height, kept safe somehow otherwise. It aged gracefully, because Aziraphale expected books and scrolls to age but had willed it not to decay, and Crowley found it because he had been meant to. Carefully, reverently, he pulled the scroll out from the tree. 

It creaked and the paper felt more like the cloth of old money than properly paper, yellowed at the edges. He unrolled it only a few inches, it had been closed as if it had been read through, the end of it ready to be revealed. He stopped, sobbed, and leaned against the tree to support his weight. He suddenly felt just a bit lighter, just a bit cleaner.

_ To my friend, who I had the pleasure of knowing, though many wouldn’t believe it. He was kind and good to us and sat and supped with us, and he left like a breeze across the ocean in the night, felt and heard but not seen again.  _

_ My friend, I wish you well, and I hope this makes it to you as this man, Dōng-huǒ, [7] says it will reach you and I pray that it does.  _

_ You left your name here, and we have kept it with the rest of the family’s names in their cases, hoping that perhaps you might visit again. Either way, we have kept it safe for you, Chi, even when you were called Changpu. [8] _

  * _Bi Sheng_



Below that was his own signature, 魑, the one he’d worked on for multiple days to get just right, what he’d wanted to write something for and sign it with, perhaps something to give to Aziraphale, who would never know it had been written for the angel alone. He’d never gotten to, and later on it seemed too trite to try it again, too much like he’d lost the moment. But maybe he’d have it again, perhaps he could give this to Aziraphale. After he’d read it over, of course.

* * *

[7] Dōng-huǒ translates as Eastern Fire, because Aziraphale wasn’t overly imaginative about names and hadn’t thought to pick up one that would fit in better than his own, and certainly not one that would fit into the characters of Hanyu. It certainly didn’t sound like much of a name (more of a once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon that stories are told about for generations, but considering they had been visited by Aziraphale, Principality, and Cherub Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, once placed directly at the feet of the Lord and shining with a radiance felt rather than seen) but no one really thought to say anything about it considering meeting Aziraphale for the first time could certainly be considered a once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon for those who never saw the man-shaped being again.

[8] Chī, with the character used by Crowley 魑, comes from the "ghost radical" and "mountain demon radical" to mean "A kind of ghost/demon” that comes from the mountains. Changpu means “flourishing simplicity” or “flourishing vine” which tickled Crowley pink to learn it was a proper name. 


	8. Theses

_ Plink. _ Sand fell. _ Plink.  _ Confidence fell.  _ Plink.  _ But resolve did not. Careful tendrils of auras and supernatural senses crept out and prodded at the plane around them, only to quickly be pulled back. Time was endless, and these timeless entities were no more equipped to understand it than any Human was. So they didn’t try, far more used to things being unexplainable, being… ineffable than not. 

#####  **Germany: 95 Theses, 1517 AD**

Crowley poured a drink for the monk across the table, it was only fair after all. He was curled up atop a chair in an effort to keep his feet, or anything else, off the floor. Luckily the chairs hadn’t been blessed as well, but consecrated grounds of the priory did his feet no favors. He’d been feeling these burns for years. It was easy enough to pass off, mostly. The consecration of the grounds was concentrated in some places more than others, and those were simple to avoid. The archives and the church rooms themselves were off limits to him, but luckily it wasn’t considered normal for travelers to necessarily make avail of those rooms. So, he sat more often than not and pulled his feet onto the chairs, and made an effort to lounge about like the gentleman of ill repute he was.

“So, Martin!” Crowley crowed with a grin, taking another sip of his own wine. The monastery had some rather remarkable mead if Crowley was at all inclined to be honest, “What say you about indulgences?” The only reason he was here in the first place was to test the waters on them. Not like Downstairs likely didn’t already know, but he’d come here, to a bloody fucking priory and burn his feet off to find out, so he bloody well would, bless it! And if he indulged, well, further instances of gluttony and sloth could be added to his resume.

“Master Crowley, you can not lure such thoughts from my tongue so easily. A cup of the monasteries own mead is hardly enough to forge a bond of confidence.” The monk’s eyes twinkled as he spoke, something spirited and passionate barely concealed there. That’s what he was after, those questions, those spirited thoughts. 

Crowley put on an affronted air nonetheless, his hand pressed to his chest in dismay and his jaw hung open as if he’d been struck speechless. Martin took a long swallow of his drink, apparently unmoved by Crowley’s act and smiling to himself as if he were amused by it to boot! But then again, most people found Crowley charming despite themselves, the righteous and clergy especially. 

“You accuse me of such incivility, Martin! Cannot two men share meat and mead and put the world to rights?” He topped up both drinks once more, offering a sharp smile as he did so.

It was no accident that Crowley had found himself sat across from this particular monk, that he was plying him with drink and the most subtle suggestion of demonic influence, just to loosen his tongue and speak his mind. Martin had already earned himself a reputation amongst the local clergy for having Ideas; the kind of Ideas that really earned the capital I. He wanted a receptive audience and Crowley intended to fulfill that role. He hadn’t been sent by Hell, not this time. Crowley wanted to see what this was all about, to see if Martin might have truly earned such a reputation in truth or if they were only petty rumors.

Crowley had a soft spot for those who questioned. He’d liked Jesus for that reason too, actually. Jesus and Martin both had that look about them, a certain sort of care and kindness in their eyes that sparked a need to know and understand in their guts. Of course, Jesus had it a bit easier in that regard, knowing the hearts of men as God as he did. But Martin gave it a good try, from what Crowley had seen as he watched the man and made his acquaintance over the last couple days. And now he’d finally enticed the man to sit down and drink with him.

Several cups later, Martin was looking distinctly pink in the face and warming to his topic nicely. Crowley rest his chin in the palm of one hand and gave every indication of being an attentive listener. He was an old hat at this game, it didn’t take much to get humans to talk about the things they liked, that was the secret. People  _ always _ wanted to talk about the things they liked and themselves and often the things they hated too, if only to have someone who might commiserate and understand. That was the basis of every temptation, of each and every conversation a demon might have with a human.

_ Do you understand me? _ That’s all human souls wanted, at least before they were corrupted, actively or not, by a demon or by themselves, at the core of it people wanted to be heard and understood and sometimes also liked. Crowley, of course, was quite good at pretending to do all of those things. In this particular case, he didn’t have to pretend.

“An’ anyway!” Crowley had to work to slur his words, drinking with mortals could be fun but no one had ever managed to match his tolerance for alcohol, but he didn’t want Martin to think there was anything off about him, certainly not more than he might already think. Crowley had quickly found there was little men thought so off-putting as another man who didn’t seem to be able to get drunk, “Anyway! ‘S whot’s the  _ pope _ supposed ta do about souls ‘n purgatory? ‘Sn’t he jus’ a human? ‘S divine-y human, an’ snot, but still jus’ a human! Didn’ he say their souls were fine once coins hit the coffers or some rot? How’s  _ that _ fair? Don’ S-He love all humans, no matter how much money they’ve got?”

“Y’see, the thing is, the  _ thing _ is,” Martin nodded enthusiastically, making himself just a bit dizzy if the way he swayed was any indication, obviously pleased that Crowley had read what he’d written down, “that if you can just buy your way out of a punishment then what’ve you learned? Where’s the, y’know,  _ repentance _ ? How’d you grow as a person and a Christian if you can just pay off your sin?” Martin talked with his hands as much as his voice, pressing his points home with aggravated jabs into the table.

“Yess!” Crowley forgot himself briefly and hissed in his own exuberance, eyes widening in delight behind fashionable, stained glass on wire frames, “An’–an’ tha’ bloody pope shoul’ be listenin’ ta you! You’ve got the right ‘ve it! How’re humans supposed ta grow if ya can jsut throw money at it an’ keep doin’ the bad things you’re doin’?!” That never much made sense to Crowley. Though perhaps, Heaven had thought indulgences were demonic work like Hell thought they were some botched up paperwork from Heaven—expecting some clerical angel to come down the escalator for Dagon to sign off for a transfer of souls, but it never came.

Crowley nodded, looking thoughtful for a moment.

“D’you think that people’s souls are being damned ‘cos they aren’t repenting properly?” The world paused at that statement and Crowley had to hide a smile as how the breath seemed to leave Martin, like he’d been well and truly winded.

Martin looked stricken, as if the full weight of his beliefs had not occurred to him before that very moment.

“Mein Gott.” He crossed himself sloppily. “You might be right. I- I need to think about this. If I’m right then so many otherwise good Christians are on a path to damnation without knowing it. I have to do something!” 

The monk stood up from the table and promptly stumbled over the front of his cassock, forcing Crowley to smother a laugh.

“Master Crowley, thank you for this revelation. I’m sure you were sent to me by God Almighty for this purpose.” He hurried off as Crowley poured the last of the mead into his own cup.

“What a funny little man,” Crowley muttered to himself and sat back.

The next morning, Crowley woke up to find the monastery in disarray and his head hurting more than it should. Monks, scholars, dignitaries and more all swarmed the halls, making it difficult for Crowley to navigate his way to a safe perch. The dull burning in the soles of his feet distracted him from paying attention to the cause of the commotion until he registered hearing a familiar name being repeated. He grabbed a passing monk by the shoulders to get a straight answer.

“What’s going on?” If he snarled his question it was down to discomfort, not a desire to intimidate.

“Martin Luther has started a revolution! He has nailed his declaration to the door of the cathedral!” The man broke away and hurried along to wherever he was headed.

Crowley momentarily forgot about the pain in his feet as he connected his late-night conversation and the fuss this morning. Groaning into his hands, he began to run through ways that he might be able to spin this to his advantage. Conflict within the church was a good thing, surely? Heavy with resignation, Crowley left the monastery and went to make his excuses to Hell.

Unbelievably, Hell seemed pleased with his work. Crowley didn’t want to push his luck but the praise had been almost sincere in tone. As he left, an envelope was pressed into his hands with a wink that could have meant any number of things, most of which Crowley would prefer not to think about. Back in daylight, it turned out to be a commendation for his recent work in Spain regarding the Inquisition. Feeling rather over Germany, Crowley set out for Spain to see what he was getting credit for. 

Then he drank himself insensible for over a week.


	9. Declarations

_ Plink. _ More sand fell, brushed from black coat and off tight pants, gathered from a fall to a knee that never happened and a Fall that happened all too many times in remnants of dreams. Winds that didn’t exist buffeted three figures as they spoke, lifetimes between two and the beginning of a new one in the third.

#####  **France: Declaration of the Rights of Man, 1790 AD**

A loud ruckus sounds through the streets of France, downtown Paris to be exact. There’s door knocked in and left open to the streets and there’s a crowd surrounding a tall, lanky demon who’s clambered up on top of a statue, his legs hooked around its shoulders and his arms held up to the sky in joyful exuberance.

“Hear me!” He crows loudly, coiffed red hair bright as blood against the overcast skies above, the only drop of color on the vast canvas of grey behind him. “Your brethren hear  _ you! _ They’ve heard you and they’ve acted, just like you demanded! We’ve risen up above our station, and what stations they were! Beneath the smack of ev’ry Lord’s rod, the disgust of ev’ry Lady! And yet still we lived and toiled.” [1] Crowley grinned at the crowd, hands sweeping out and subtly flexing his lean muscles on display under his loose shirt. Sure, he was inciting a riot, more or less, of a whole country ideally, and he was egging the commoners to overthrow their oppressors, but he might as well get in a Lust temptation to cash in on Below at the same time. [2]

* * *

[1] This would, of course, be made into a song much later called Madame Guillotine in the Scarlet Pimpernel musical. Crowley will hate it even though he begrudgingly enjoys the music.

[2] Crowley was mainly a freelancer for all Seven Vice departments, took work from each of them but also had to submit invoices directly to Dagon rather than through some lower Lords and up (or rather, Down) the chain of command so he was at any point more likely to be discorporated by their bad mood due to misfiled paperwork. It did mean he got his Demonic Magicks Returns processed sooner, which were a lot like Taxes and allotments of infernal magics for the month.   


* * *

“Do you want to know what they said? What they wrote of you?!” Crowley leaned precariously over the amassing crowd, more and more people coming out of the woodwork to hear what the fuss was all about, and slowly getting caught up in the mob of it. Only the slightest of Temptations, just to listen, to stay and hear. Nothing about what they’d do with it, of course, wouldn’t be free will otherwise, but if he snared them in his web just for a quick listen, then it was a minor use of his powers after all, now wasn’t it? “There is a life about to start, when tomorrow comes! Listen and hear of what we’re  _ promised _ !”

The Declaration of the Rights of Man was approved by the National Assembly of France in August. It was barely January of 1790 now and he was already pleased to inform those who would listen of his memorization skills. And oratory skills. He was, as the joke would go some time in the future, a cunning linguist. 

The crowd matched his frenetic fervor, the humans gathering beneath his outstretched arms clamored to hear what he had to say and they would not be disappointed. Not by Crowley, not today!

“They say that the ignorance, neglect, or contempt of the rights of man are the sole cause of public calamities and of the corruption of governments! They are determined to set forth in a solemn declaration the natural,  _ unalienable _ , and sacred rights of man, and shall remind them continually of their rights and duties!” The crowd quieted somewhat as Crowley continued on, listening intently and with an emotion so close to shock it might as well have been. They were tired, they were restless, and they would not be left destitute still at the hypocrisy of the nobility that grated so.

Crowley recited the 17 rights written into the declaration and incited the crowd into a frenzied mass of hope just on this side of outrage that might actually push them into doing something about their own, wretched situations here. How they might go about it, he couldn’t possibly imagine, but humans were, by and large, the most inventive sort. Perhaps they’d think up some new machine to assist them somehow. Perhaps they’d just out-stubborn the nobility into giving up. He jumped off the statue in a demonic show of grace and poise (and though his balance was always on point he had to use a bit of power to keep his knees from buckling as he nearly misjudged his landing) and sauntered off through the crowd, hips first, and smirking at anyone who attempted to meet his eyes.

Either way, Crowley couldn’t wait to find out what sort of trouble he’d helped set up, or continued to help set up. The storming of the Bastille had happened some months ago and that was rather brilliant of the brave little humans, he thought. Or, at least, that’s what he reports back to Hell after it all came to fruition. 

Crowley quickly became a popular orator on the streets of Paris and sometimes in other cities as well. He'd memorized the entirety of the Declaration of the Rights of Man, and spoke of it so every layperson could understand and know what it  _ meant _ . He shouted it from atop statues and standing on stoops, he spoke with men and women in the hidden corners of taverns and behind textile shops of what this could mean for them. [3]

And the humans at once followed the same story of tired and resentful as they had over in the Americas, those 13 colonies who had gone to war with a power as large as England and somehow won ( _and fuck the English,_ the crowd roared back!). Or, at least, they hadn't lost and that's really what mattered in that case. Crowley about that too, and spread dissenting knowledge of lives that could be easier and better for themselves and their children. 

_ I was right _ , Crowley thought to himself glumly, sitting in a small tavern far away from the proceedings. The Guillotine. Only humans could be so damned inventive. A sophisticated head-cutting-off-machine. [4] Crowley had been hoping for something along the lines of a megaphone or glow in the dark poster paint, to be frank. He chuckled to himself into another cup of ale. No one was here, they’d all packed up and gone to the races– no, not the races, the executions. Maybe humans really were made in their image, corruptible and happy to visit notable deaths in public for some good family fun. He stuck out his tongue with a frown. 

* * *

[3] It felt like doing all the things he ought to have before Falling, of finally saying everything bare and laid out he believed. It felt like egging a carriage on faster and faster even knowing there would be a great chasm in the land ahead, even knowing there would be a deadly drop into the abysm.

[4] Ah, there it was, that abyss ahead.   


* * *

The ale was mediocre, but that wasn’t the point was it? It seemed like he was spending more and more time in taverns, regretting deeply his decisions to rile up the crowds of humans. Sure, maybe it needed to happen, but this was a bit much, running after the Flight to Varennes, their royalty attempting to flee as expats. They hadn’t been offed yet, but with how en vogue the guillotine was becoming–official now as of March, he thought–it was only a matter of time. 

Then, in 1793 soon after the king was guillotined, Crowley felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. It was the oddest thing, it was. Felt suddenly like he was flying but his wings weren't working again and there was nothing to land on in sight, that first little dip on a pulley lift when starting a decent. 

"Aziraphale," he breathed, eyes wide behind dark glasses. 

"Sorry gents!" He grinned smarmily and stood from the table, throwing down a few conjured coins, uncaring where they'd come from or how much it was. "I forgot about a previous appointment, something or other about a dog."[5]

Once free of human onlookers, Crowley snapped his way into the Bastille and honestly found himself unsurprised at the situation and, unfortunately, rather fondly amused. 

Though he'd never mention such a thing. 

* * *

[5] To "see a man about a dog" was a euphemism that wouldn't come into play for another 50 years, give or take, when dog racing would become a popular gambling pastime. Crowley, of course, didn’t much care about dog racing. He would have much preferred to watch penguin racing.


	10. Bentley

_ Sshhh.  _ A cascade of sand collected in the crook of an elbow ran freely down a sleeve shaken clean of troubling specks. Hope bloomed in the adversity, taking root in substrate too changeable to sustain it. Time is inconsequential, the hope will survive for as long as it is needed; a lifetime or an instant. It matters not.

#####  **Münster, Germany: The Bentley, 1941 AD**

Crowley sat, glassy-eyed, in a small office. No one could tell of course. He wore dark, stylish sunglasses that obscured his eyes and the bags underneath them. His demonic interventions were taxing him greatly, the effort involved in hiding what exactly he was using the power for from his supervisors and filing them firmly under “In Nazi Territory” to make it seem like he was aiding and abetting the chaos. 

It felt a bit like the Spanish Inquisition all over again, commendations and approval for truly terrible, detestable things the humans were doing all on their own. Crowley shot back some schnapps at the well-stocked bar done up in redwood which Crowley might have thought beautiful for the understated opulence in the carvings at the base if not for the fact he was far into Germany at the time. It was an SS Officer meeting.[1] 

He’d been spending most of his magics to smuggle people and things out of and into Germany.[2] The thought of his work turned his stomach sour, so he declined any more of the fruit brandy. All in all, it made him a mysterious figure, the kind of person you contact when you need something desperately but don’t want anyone to know about it. He’d get rid of anyone, for a price, and if that so often meant “getting rid of” those Nazi Germany wanted to kill but didn’t want to deal with sending anyone else after, then so be it.

* * *

[1] He wasn’t one, of course; he was a spy. Of a sort anyway, the kind which double-crossed the bad guys in the end. 

[2] Usually on his way in he smuggled rationed items, new information, spies and deserters from the frontlines into the Fatherland. Out of Germany, he took with him the Jews and any others who were starting to be rounded up and sent to camps to die.   


* * *

He was the devil at the crossroads, Crowley heard tell sometimes, and his smile always turned sharp and oily when he did. The kind a human might expect from a demon trying to charm them into parting from their soul. And if he took those deals, if he dragged the souls of those rightfully damned by their own actions from this war, to make sure there was no last-minute, bedside repentance for the heinous things they’ve done? Then so be it. 

With dark thoughts in his head and wide-brimmed fedora tilted down to shadow his face, [3] even in the brightly lit room of German officers and their wives and beaus acting like nothing at all was happening outside this carousal, he felt like he was in a permanent state of swallowing back a scream. Crowley was unsure if he ever felt more like a demon, seething hate running through his bones and wrapping around his soul in a way he was sure blackened whatever recesses may have possibly been untarnished before. 

* * *

[3] Crowley was, if nothing else, partial to the drama of it all. The moving pictures had turned to things like adventure and action recently, though too many had the taste of war in them for Crowley, but to strike the imposing figure from across the room? That had absolutely always been Crowley’s style. It was, after all, one of the best cards he had in his hand when interacting with humans, especially those he didn’t like. And here and now? The dark, slim suits with sharply cut hair and shadowy hats worn to accentuate the angles of his jaw and body, made him look to be the dangerous creature he was for all that he went soft at the first sight of a bookstore angel.   


* * *

For ten minutes, between his last schnapps and the first “Hallo, Herr Crowley!” of the Schutzstaffel Sturmbannführer Becker, Crowley hated humanity and humans and everything that had ever become of them. For the ten minutes after, while attempting to speak in a way which wouldn’t be particularly disrespectful–more than he could get away with at least–with the Sturmbannführer Becker he hated humans all the more, resented them and all the things they had stood for, of all the stars he could have seen if not for  _ humans _ .

And then he was being pat on the back, his shoulder firmly grasped in what was likely meant to be a friendly, affirming gesture of solidarity from the Assault-Unit Leader, and he noticed the party had died down quite a bit. 

“Come, Herr Crowley, let us drive you home! Oberführer Krueger has offered us the use of his automobile!” The man offered with a smile and, since he had no reason to deny the officer and couldn’t without casting some doubt on himself that would surely be an inconvenience down the road, he nodded with his own tight smile in response. Crowley felt a thrill of dark pleasure settle in his chest and warm his gut better than the schnapps had when Becker shivered at something his subconscious so clearly knew was inhuman. And dangerous.

The vehicle was a shining like a brand-new weapon, a polished and waxed black which nearly melted into the dark of the night except for the specks of light reflected on it from windows which made it look like the Milky Way. Taken from some rich household, Crowley suspected, one who had purchased it fresh off the assembly line in London back when they were first rolling off of it as the automobile was rather obviously, ostentatiously British. It was interesting that an English automobile was being driven here, and by these officers, but Crowley wasn’t going to question it. Well he was, but not aloud; he’d learned that lesson many, many centuries ago. The vehicle was just a vehicle, no matter how shiny or how pleasant the shape of it was. Even if it wasn’t of German make, it was carrying some of the worst humans who’d ever lived around and Crowley had no choice but to dislike it on principle. 

He stepped out onto the streets, the night air felt eerily still and quiet even so far into Münster proper, but then again, that was war for you. The revelry from only minutes ago seemed even further out of place. But, Crowley followed Becker’s lead and got into the shining automobile alongside two Oberscharführer officers and closed the door behind him. 

The ride itself was raucous, the officers all a bit drunk, and Crowley scowling freely at their antics, the anger kindled in his spirit at the sight festering through him. Perhaps, then, that was why he didn’t notice the whistling. Not until it was nearly too late. There were planes above and the city was being bombed, nearby roads and structures were exploding. Mortar from a sharp and grey building hit Oberführer Krueger’s temple through the open window, spattering the windshield with blood, and the car swerved and hit a lamp post.

Each of the men scurried free from the automobile, leaving Crowley and the car behind without a backwards glance. Becker had pulled Kreuger’s unconscious-and-possibly-dead body from the wreckage as they fled, looking for shelter. 

Crowley simply sat in the car, waiting for anything new to fall on this street, and then sat some more when they didn’t, demonic magic prepared to keep himself from discorporation for a bit longer, just in case. With a sigh, he exited the car and stood once he was confident the coast was clear, stretching out just a little bit farther than he ought to have been able to even with how lanky and tall he looked, something inhuman and  _ tired _ shoved and compiled into a human-shaped body.

Absent-mindedly he patted the car, “Looks like they cared nearly as much for you as they did for me.” He drawled, biting and sarcastic. He had nothing else to take his foul mood out on, so it might as well be the car that had been meant to take him to his current residence in Germany but had spectacularly failed.His hand came back covered in mortar dust and perhaps some ash from nearby fires started from the destruction caused by the bombing. 

There, on the top of the automobile, was a handprint. 

Perfectly shaped, and he could almost see the whorls on his fingertips. And for some reason, it tugged at something in his heart, unraveled the anger he stoked there, and he was reminded violently of what seemed like eons spent leaving his fingerprints elsewhere. All over the cosmos, covered in affection and angelic Love. 

“Oh,” he said under his breath, a startled thing pulled from the core of him in shock.

“Oh,” Crowley repeated softly, smoothing a hand over the dusty and scratched hood, and he thought that the black underneath the grey might match his wings but with a resin shine. He could just– Crowley buffed out a spot and the wax left over from the last wash job the car had gotten smoothed and cleared to leave a glossy black pure as the void of space. 

“Oh my dear,” he cooed, his thought of Aziraphale prompting the endearment to slip past his lips and his guard. “Not to worry, dear girl, we’ll have you patched up in no time.” His fingers trailed along every notch and scrape, smoothing them out with just a little power, breathing life back into the car that had been used, unsuspecting, to aid terrible people.

“Not to worry, not to worry,” he whispered under his breath, in the same way a parent might soothe a child with their first scraped knee, “You’ll be alright.” 

It may have been hours, it could have just as easily been days or months, that Crowley spent learning and touching every piece of the car. A big black job he hoped never to see wreathed in flame again, the kind of car a spy like the human he pretended to be ought to drive he thought in justification, but it rang hollow for some reason [4] and he thought that this is what it must have felt like to paint the colors of the Almighty across the void of space. Crowley remembered he’d done it, he remembered the motions of it—the very same motions he unconsciously used to brush the tips of his fingers across every aspect of Bently—but he didn’t remember how it  _ felt _ to press that love of his overflowing into the universe and have it be so utterly accepted. But he thought, to himself and to her, this must be what it had been like.

* * *

[4] There was a little bit of his soul in the car now.  _ Bentley _ she told him,  _ Bentley _ he corrected in his thoughts.   


* * *

A swooping feeling in his gut dropped his stomach to the ground and he stiffened for a moment, still jittery with nerves and the adrenaline his human-styled corporation pumped through him at a moment’s notice in this Hell of a war. 

“Ready for a drive, girl?” He got the distinct impression she was. 

“We’ll have to go fast.” He warned her. She didn’t mind, liked it even. Thought parades were far too slow. He grinned.

“You’ll get to meet the angel too.” He smiled softly. She thought a curiosity to him and his grin grew even wider.

“Guess you’ll find out when we get there. Best get started, hm?” She revved her engine with no key in the ignition or driver in her seat. He laughed for the first time in half a decade in delight and got in.

She drove him back home London just as happily then as she did when he had church-burnt feet for the next decade or so.


	11. Queen

_ Plink.  _ It was falling slower now, or faster. Hard to tell.  _ Plink. _ Grit between gritted teeth, hands reaching for each other blasted by sand-heavy winds.  _ Plink. _ The potential for all future human memories was held by a creature unsure of himself and supported by the best and worst of their kinds. Time waits.

#####  **USA, Portland, Maine: Love of my Life, 1977 AD**

The press and bustle of humans around him made Crowley feel small. In a way, he hadn’t in a very long time. The sort of small that feels alright, the kind of thing that means you’re a part of something bigger, something you  _ wanted _ to be a part of. A commune with the souls of those around you in the purest form of expression, lead through these out of body experiences with music. Reaching the pinnacle of humanity. 

Crowley felt like his soul leapt out from his chest and screamed,  _ Do you understand me?! _

And the resounding answer was a  _ Yes! _ that felt like Love. It had been over six millennia, and for some reason, right here and now, this is when his heart felt like it connected with his body, held together by his soul, for the first time. The heartbeat drumming of eons past couldn’t compare, the solemn chants of choirs trained in the art of it didn’t stack up, nor did the most beautiful angelic voices[1] hold a candle to  _ this _ . 

Crowley was in a crowd of thousands, the centre filled to its maximum capacity and bursting at the seams. Thousands of heartbeats and the laughter and raucous cheers of those thousands–it was nearly overwhelming to think that there were more humans here than the sum of his years of life–quieted at the soft strains from on stage. 

A few notes of a gently strummed guitar began, filtering through the crowd who was hushed in the quietest reverence the demon could ever remember being a part of. It was the sweetest lie Crowley had ever experienced.[2] Suddenly a clamor grew through the crowd as the man up on stage began singing. 

* * *

[1] Crowley didn’t think much of them, angelic choirs are as much how they speak in their true forms as they are about praising the Almighty, and so it was nothing special. Except, of course, on the rare occasions he caught Aziraphale unawares and heard him then. But even so, this was something truly, beautifully, human. 

[2] Or, at least, it very nearly was. The sweetest lie Crowley knew was something else entirely and had quite a bit to do with the very angel the opening notes of this song invoked thought of.    


* * *

_ Love of my life, you've hurt me _ _   
_ _ You've broken my heart and now you leave me _

Crowley’s heart clenched at the way the man up on stage swayed, his eyes closed and so very clearly feeling each and every one of his words. The melody of the song was understated, it wasn’t difficult to follow and could even be called simplistic. 

It felt anything and everything but simple to Crowley.

It felt like fear, it felt like going too fast, it felt like speeding forward and accelerating at the speed of light only to throw his wings out inches from the ground and pull himself up out of a death dive. 

It felt like all the things Crowley never wanted to think about but couldn’t stop it from circling in his head. 

_ Love of my life, don't leave me _ _   
_ _ You've stolen my love, you now desert me _ _   
_ _ Love of my life, can't you see? _

For the first time in a very long time, Crowley could feel the stinging sensation of tears gathering in his eyes. Angels weren’t meant to love like this. Sure they were built to contain and amplify the Love of Divinity, they were created to do nothing but. And even the Fallen, especially the Fallen, they weren’t meant to love in any way at all anymore. Their purposes burnt out of them, their Love. But here he was, the most broken of them all, still clinging to shattered shards of the Love he sorely missed and of the congregation he desperately wished to feel a part of again.

Perhaps that’s why he Loved the earth as he did, the humans and their ineffable humanity as he did. They had ways to come together, to connect, without ever having felt divine Love so clearly as an angel had, and yet they continued to prove themselves better and worse in turn than angels or demons ever could be. The sheer breadth of their ability to  _ be _ escaped him in the ways unseeable colors did to the colorblind. Their unity overwhelmed him, their spirits rising with every note and falling in perfect harmony as they all sang of love so purely, so desperately hopeful. 

Crowley couldn’t help but do the same. Even if he’d never heard this song before, this artist, his heart knew it.

_ You will remember _ _   
_ _ When this is blown over _ _   
_ _ Everything's all by the way _ _   
_ _ When I grow older _ _   
_ _ I will be there at your side to remind you _ _   
_ _ How I still love you  _

He belonged, some nameless face in a crowd of people all here to worship at the altar of lowercase love, and no capital-L Love had ever felt so complete. It felt like blasphemy, the pride of it in his chest fighting for space with the hope right beside it, growing within the cage of his ribs in tandem like a growing binary system orbiting his heart. 

It felt like everything he’d ever missed and ever yearned for and everything he had yet to find that pained him in the most beautiful of ways. It felt like an Aziraphale-shaped space tucked carefully in the center of his being before he’d even met such a creation. 

It felt like home. 

_ Don't take it away from me _ _   
_ _ Because you don't know what it means to me _ _   
_ _ Love of my life _

Crowley’s cheeks felt itchy and with a growl of annoyance at being suddenly ripped from the most heavenly, surreal experience he could remember having since Falling, he pulled the sunglasses from his face only to cover his eyes with a hand. 

The tears still fell down his cheeks, crystalline and salt-crusted as they dried from the body heat of those around him. His stomach clenched and his heart twisted painfully, but in a way that felt freeing almost. Like he’d thrown off some sort of weight from his shoulders. 

He was cleansed with salt and water and in the heat of the fire fed by the passions around him. And for the first time, in a long while, he felt at peace with himself, standing stock still in the midst of a massive crowd held a single, final note so fervently until it reverberated in Crowley’s very bones.

It felt like the Song of creation then. And Crowley felt new.

Some hours later, Crowley is the last one sitting in a place that used to be so crowded he could feel their heartbeats. The cleaning crew has come and gone, not noticing him, and the band has packed up to wherever they’re going for the night (Crowley sent them off with a demonic intervention for an enjoyable night, however they choose to have it), and Crowley is alone again.

The sun rises slowly over the horizon, it’s Saturday. 

Crowley stands, leaving the weight of his thoughts behind, shed like old skin, and gets in his car and drives.

For the first time, Bentley plays a song of her own volition. The opening notes that ripped his heart open filter through speakers that don’t exist, but this time it feels like peace and Love and love all the same. 

* * *

“And whatever happens . . . for good or for evil, we’re beside you.” 

“I’m going to start time. You won’t have long to do whatever you’re going to do.” Crowley revved the tyre iron as if he were cranking an old car's motor with it, “And do it quickly!”

Sand whirled around three figures. Demon, Angel, and the Prince of Men. And suddenly it all fell away and they were back. In Tadfield, at the airbase, on a vast expanse of lifeless concrete that gave way to fire and brimstone as Satan clawed his way to the surface.

And Adam, the Young one, knew  _ exactly _ what to do. 

Crowley and Aziraphale believed in him so desperately that, even if Adam’s powers hadn’t been enough to shape this reality, he had the might of an agent of both Hell and Heaven at his fingertips.

And so it was. And so they were safe for another day. To continue their living and loving in the same way they had always been meant to, in a very Human way.

GOD looked down upon all HER creations, and SHE saw that it was Good. And really, could anyone cast blame upon HER if SHE nudged two of HER favorites together every so often?

As Above, so below, and Crowley tripped over nothing in St. James park, directly into Aziraphale’s arms, who smiled so kindly that Crowley’s quicksilver tongue couldn’t make up any excuses to seem cool.

“Looks like I really do sweep you off your feet, my dear.” Aziraphale beamed, pleased with himself, and the feel of his demon in his arms.

Crowley groaned, hiding his own soppy smile with a hand over his face. “That was just  _ bad _ , Angel.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see more of my sutff or my shitposting visit me on [Tumblr](https://D20Owlbear.tumblr.com/)!


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